


Sogni d’oro, tesorino

by Colourful_skies



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Aerugo, Ballroom Dancing, Can Grammar Be Romantic, Cuddling, Edward Elric Swears, Fic with a mind of its own, Fluff, Homage to the awkward sandwich scene, Language Immersion, Light Angst, Light Hurt/Comfort, Light Smut after Part 1, M/M, Mutual Pining, References to heteronormativity, Slow Burn, Swing Dancing, Switching, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Top Ed, Vaguely Italian, bed sharing, oblivious boys, post-fmab
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28258677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colourful_skies/pseuds/Colourful_skies
Summary: Ed arrives in Aerugo for a month-long study trip.Truckloads of grammar? He’s prepared for that. Dance lessons? Debatable. Sharing a bed all month with Roy Mustang? No effing way.(On hiatus but not abandoned!)
Relationships: Edward Elric/Roy Mustang
Comments: 10
Kudos: 29
Collections: Roy/Ed Week 2020





	1. uno

**Author's Note:**

> I love language learning, so when I saw the RoyEd Week prompt “THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED” I knew what I had to do. As per some conjectures online, I did some hand-waving and loosely conflated Aerugo with Italy... please feel free to correct my Italian. The prompt “Changed” makes a cameo appearance.
> 
> Picking the POV and pacing was tricky (Cuddles? Grammar? Dancing?) but fingers crossed that it works. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Rated M, but closer to T. It’s gentle in most ways, but Ed liberally seasons his language with swearing. Following the wave of the plot, I ended up with my first (honestly fairly off-screen) smut in part two. Ooh la la.

I’m far from home, and it has been a fucking long day.

I drop my duffel on the ground and fling myself onto my new bed. _Floomp._

This is a pretty sweet room. I figured it’d be, like, a regular dorm, but there’s a double bed and an en-suite. I guess a supervisor gets this one during the school year?

I shut my eyes and will the mattress to swallow me whole. Okay, it’s definitely not _thick_ thick, but any bed is sweet relief right now. The trek down to Aerugo took a lot out of me. It didn’t help that the train was four hours late leaving. However, supper is also seriously overdue. I shake myself awake.

They gave us some bagged meal downstairs, so I unpack it. Ooh – Aerugo favours fancy bread. I’d probably eat anything right now, but it’d be a crime not to appreciate this sandwich. It looks like it’s got that Aerugonian cheese – bol-, no, bocco-something? That’s why I’m here, by the way. Not to eat (not _just_ to eat) but to stroll out of here next month an Aerugonian language whiz.

_Pull yourself together, Ed. Eat the food, don’t just stare at it and space out._

Mmm. The flavours melt in my mouth. This is heaven – sprawled on a bed with the world’s best sandwich.

I’m mid happy-eating groan (what? It’s good) when the door flies open. Holy shit. I launch myself to a sitting position. _Look casual._ And of fucking course it’s _him_ , surprising me on the other side of the continent and barging in on what probably sounded like some kinda sandwich porno.

General Roy Mustang.

For a split second, we just stare at each other, confused.

Cheeks burning, I launch myself back into a sitting position on the bed and swallow more of the sandwich than advisable. “What – are you doin’ in my room?” My best glare is dampened by choking on ciabatta and trying not to die.

“Nice to see you too, Edward,” says Mustang drily, “but why are you on my bed? How did you even get in here?”

What?

Back in control of my breathing, I muster a satisfying _hmph_. “I _thought_ I locked that,” I say. I pull out and wave around my key card. “This is my room, #209.”

Mustang quirks an eyebrow, displaying another #209 key card.

“Oh, fuck me,” I say. Mustang’s eyebrow rises further. “I don’t think a single fuckin’ part of arriving in Aerugo has gone smoothly. Not even eating this sandwich in peace.” I consider it mournfully and then rip off another bite. Not even Mustang is powerful enough to make food lose its appeal.

The intruder blinks as if trying to recover. “Don’t worry your pretty little head,” says Mustang liltingly, and surely he wants me to _murder_ him, “they probably just made an error.” He shrugs. “Shall we consult the front desk?”

“Whatever, bastard,” I shrug. I leave my belongings behind (in _my_ room, thank you very much), bringing only the remaining bit of sandwich.

It’s futile.

“They didn’t tell you when you checked in?” The desk person looks stricken. “The lodging numbers were off by one this session, so you two were placed together. My colleague was under the impression you knew each other.”

“Well, we kind of –”

“Ex-colleague is hardly the same as bedmate,” I scoff. My cheeks heat; stupid treasonous capillaries. “It’s fine, whatever, but can’t you fix it?”

“I’m so sorry, sirs, but we don’t have any more rooms. I’m afraid there isn’t another option, unless you wanted to inquire elsewhere? There’s a hotel at the bottom of the hill.”

Mustang and I exchanged looks and a small, grudging nod.

“No, that’s fine,” he says. “We’ll… figure it out.”

The receptionist looks deeply relieved. I’m beyond caring.

“Double-booked? Seriously?” I grumble once we’re out of earshot.

“At least we were still able to enroll in the training,” says Mustang.

“I guess so.” We’re back at the room. I grab my pajama bottoms. “I’m wiped out. Gonna get ready to sleep.”

Oh. Fuck.

We lock gazes for an awkward moment and then speak at the same time.

“You can have the bed.”

“Dibs on the bed.”

Sweet. I didn’t want to be an asshole about it, but I feel relieved. My prosthetic leg still gets stiff sometimes if I sleep in weird positions.

“Thanks.” I swallow. “You sure you’re gonna be okay?”

“Are you kidding?” Mustang waves his hand dismissively. “I used to sleep on the ground. We have a couch; it’s like the height of luxury. Residence chic.”

“Well, thanks anyway.”

“Good night, Edward.”

“’Night.”

I lay there for probably two minutes before exhaustion claims me.

* * *

Days pass quickly around here.

Our first morning, we’re sorted into levels, and of course Mustang and I are placed together – intermediate two. I guess he learned some Aerugonian back at the academy, and I’ve been studying. It’s not the same as Xingese, but it helps to be familiar with thinking of language that way. Like a collection of Lego blocks that can be dissected and reconstructed at will.

I glance down at my yellow wristband. We’re supposed to use Aerugonian all the time here. The leaders don’t really care what we speak when we’re in our rooms, though. I’d like to be a purist, for maximum learning and all that, but we’ll see. My head is already swimming, so I figure the learning is happening either way.

Mustang’s day is busy too, presumably. He’s more social than me at meals, but seems similarly focused in class. It’s funny; I’ve never really pictured him sitting in a desk alongside a dozen other students, writing something other than boring reports. He looks energized here in a way I definitely haven’t seen during paperwork. It feels like a glimpse into a younger Mustang.

I get back before him tonight and use the opportunity to collapse on the bed and stare at the ceiling broodingly. Way to go, Ed… fuck that, I can make more friends later. Now I’m tired and need to think.

Why does seeing him again make me feel tetchy? Ugh, who am I kidding, I know the answer to this. Mustang’s a decent guy – definitely better than he gives himself credit for. Most inconveniently, he was also my first proper crush, and when it’s on your straight and much older boss, that’s just mortifying all around.

I never told him – holy Xerxes, can you imagine? A sixteen-year-old declaring what, that I fancied him? Adolescent lust? He’d have, I don’t know, pitied me or needed smelling salts or something. Fuck that. I just appreciated the beauty in my path. His face had (has) impeccable symmetry and I was there to poke him and remind him not to get too big a head. That’s me, gosh darn helpful.

The worst part? I aged almost a decade and gained only like two inches, and that bastard is supposed to look decrepit by now, but he still doesn’t look a day over 35. And now he’s sharing my room and smelling nice and probably making peaceful sleeping noises over there for the next month and I think I’m going to die.

So basically everything’s fine.

Mustang gets in just after I brush my teeth. He looks great, unfortunately, but also ready to collapse into slumber.

“ _Good night_ ,” he says in Aerugonian.

“ _Night, bastard_.” His eyebrow raise tells me that he understood, and I grin.

I toss and turn for a while, but just as I start to drift off, I hear it.

Distress. Damn it, Roy.

I stand up as quietly as I can and pad over. It looks like Mustang is asleep, but he’s tossing and turning and making little agonized sounds. Whatever dream he’s having, it does not look good.

Making up my mind, I gently put my hand on his shoulder. “Mustang.”

He jerks awake, his eyes darting around.

“It’s fine. You’re in Aerugo. We’re in a res room.”

He eases and regains composure. “Right. I guess I woke you up? Sorry, Fullmetal.”

“Ed’s really fine. I’ve got less metal now.” And no alchemy. I crack a reassuring-ish smile. “You sure you’re okay? You’re trembling like a kicked puppy.”

Mustang shrugged, not rising to the jibe. He still looks pale, but it could be the dim light. “This isn’t the first time I’ve woken like this. I didn’t mean to disturb you, though.”

I run my fingers along my braid. “Want an actual bed? It could help with better sleep.”

“But your leg –”

I cut him off. “Forget that. I didn’t say you could have the whole bed, but it’s a double bed. There’s space.” And he still hesitates. “Come on, you stubborn bastard.”

Mustang barked out a small laugh. “Fine, pipsqueak.”

“Who’re you calling…? Fine,” I huff. I don’t really mind, but I gotta keep a semblance of dignity here. I claim the right pillow and Roy slides into the sheets next to me. We face our respective walls, lights still off, and I feel light for some reason.

I wake up with a warm foot touching mine. Ahem. I retrieve mine as stealthily as I can, thanking the heavens that my _flesh_ foot migrated and not the metallic one that could bruise the colonel. General, really, but the title feels too intimidating for the sleeping man beside me, so I’ve defaulted to last name. Surprisingly, dropping the title doesn’t seem to annoy him. Maybe it’s exhausting being a general all the time? Personally, I’m fuckin’ glad I can walk down the street without recognition and deference. It gets kinda dicey in Central, honestly, that city’s got a long-ass memory, but over in East City I blend in more easily.

I lay the sheet back down after me and take my shower. After everything, I couldn’t bring myself to chop off the braid. I trim it, sure, or my dead ends would be atrocious and I’d never hear the end of it from Winry. Al has pointed out that I could’ve stopped the mobs of fans years earlier if I’d let go of it, but… I can’t. Not yet, anyway. Ditching the cape (for now) hasn’t been a big loss, but my hair is _part_ of me.

Mustang is staring when I get out. I think his eyes trace my hair, still loose down my back, but it’s hard to tell.

“Have I got somethin’ on my face?”

Roy Mustang is flustered; never thought I’d see the day. “Oh? Just spacing out. It’s nothing.”

We finish our prep and head out to stuff more grammar in our brains.

* * *

Tonight we return to the room around the same time.

After class and supper, our program sets out on a mini field trip. The piazza is crowded with students and locals, and a band fills the air with lively music.

I see Mustang on the far edge of the crowd, bopping his head so that his bangs fall into his eyes. Dork.

I’d better make sure he doesn’t get into trouble, step on a kitten, or some shit like that.

“ _Hey._ ”

He startles but keeps dancing. His smile widens. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him this relaxed.

“ _Metal boy!_ ” He cowers at the look on my face. “ _Edward. Good music, yes?_ ”

“ _It’s fun_ ,” I allow. “ _Good drums._ ” I mime their percussionist, who looks kind of pissed off but has impeccable rhythm. Maybe it’s his focusing face. I pick a good moment to comment, ‘cause there’s a brief drum solo. Cymbals are involved.

“ _You like exploding things_ ,” announces Mustang. “ _And… chaos._ ” He looks rather proud of himself. That was on our vocab list this morning. “ _Little chaos man._ ”

“ _Rompicoglioni_ ,” I mutter. We’ll see if he’s up on his Aerugonian swearing. I smile despite myself.

We chat a little longer, but it’s hard to hear over the strains of music and I don’t really want to disrupt the show.

A couple of hours later, we end up having a toothbrush party. I try to mock his earlier dance moves, but he just joins me like he’s making a game of it, the bastard.

“ _Come to bed_ ,”

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

I clear my throat, feeling suddenly less sure of connotations and shit like that in Aerugonian. “There’s still space on the other half of the bed, if you want. We could skip the whole getting up in the night thing.”

Mustang looks suddenly guarded and maybe a little guilty. “Wouldn’t I just wake you up easier from there?”

I wave my hand dismissively. “Whatever, it’s cool. If there’s a chance it helps, why not. I’m not gonna be shitty about it.” I pre-emptively grit my teeth. “Honestly, I don’t take up that much space.”

Mustang looks like Yule came early. “No? And why is that, Edward?”

“Maybe my ego’s not the size of Central City.” I stick out my tongue like a normal respectable twenty-something would.

We bicker a little more but stop before it gets boring.

The moment of truth. Mustang and I climb into the bed.

It feels much less weird than I would’ve thought.

We do a little blanket negotiating and then relax.

“ _Night, Ed._ ”

“ _Sleep well, bastard._ ”

* * *

Holy fuck, I think Mustang’s a sleep cuddler.

Or maybe I am.

All I know is that I wake up very decidedly the little spoon.

I blink and assess the situation. What is it, 6am or something? The light’s dim and my alarm hasn’t gone off yet. Of more interest, my back is flush against a certain bastard’s chest, and there’s his legs, and Xerxes, he’s got an arm draped over my waist. I’ve been pinned. It’s actually not terrible… But moving would almost certainly wake him up, right? Shit.

That’s my reasoning as I close my eyes and drift back to sleep…

When I wake up again I’m alone in the bed and almost certainly running late. Shit.

I fix my ponytail (no time to properly redo my braid) and pull on fresh clothes. Breakfast is tragically out of the picture if I don’t want to get dinged on attendance.

My mind catches up with me as I grab my bag and leave.

Was that a dream? I mean, probably not; most of my dreams are fucking awful but at least they don’t feel that real. Not after waking, anyway. And where did Mustang go? Hopefully he didn’t get spooked, but if anything, it’s his fault. I’m not the arm draper here. Well, whatever. It’s not like it was unpleasant, but dwelling on that seems impractical.

The last available seat is next to the man himself. I claim it right before attendance hits “Elric”, so my record’s untarnished for now. Mustang looks up and nods to me. The bastard looks almost shy. Interesting.

I try to concentrate on subjunctive tense, the realm of hopes and possibilities, but focusing is harder than usual.

* * *

I must’ve jinxed myself earlier. Today, it’s my turn to wake up sweating.

This dream hasn’t resurfaced in years: Al beside me, bleeding out, the black remains of what I’d thought was my mother, and screaming. So much screaming, and I’m not even sure whose. Fuck.

I force my eyes open and take deep breaths. It’s still dark outside, and Mustang’s form looks peaceful beside me. There’s probably some hope of further sleep if I can calm down.

“Ed?” Damn.

“Sorry, Mustang. Go back to sleep.”

He rolls over, turning those concerned eyes on me. “You’re shaking.”

“It’s fine. It’s just… been a while.” I have half a mind to call my brother, but remind myself he’s halfway across the continent, probably happily sleeping next to his wife.

Roy hesitates and then tentatively rests a hand on my shoulder. I don’t move away. “I know what that’s like.”

I nod, suddenly abashed, but of course he does. “Thanks Mustang,” I mumble.

“You know you can call me Roy, right? I haven’t been the boss of you for a long time.”

“You never really were,” I blurt out, petulantly, and he laughs. The Amestrisian government would disagree, but screw them.

We lapse into a comfortable silence. I nestle in a little closer to him, and if he notices, neither of us comment on it.

* * *

The next day, we begin our afternoon electives.

My first session is Aerugonian watercolours. I take to it right away. Art hasn’t been a big part of my life; it’s hard to justify when you’re trying to overthrow a government conspiracy, find your bodies, et cetera. That said, it kinda reminds me of arrays. There’s precision, sure, but there’s a creative element. You pick the tools you’re feeling in that moment and then manipulate them to make something new.

Sometimes research feels like that too.

Anyway, that passes quickly, and I’m looking forward to continuing my painting in a few days. Electives are Tuesdays and Thursdays. First, though, we’ve got our other session. This one was my fourth choice, so dread is creeping into me, but maybe it’ll be okay. What have I gotten myself into, you ask?

Aerugonian dance.

I guess I’ve danced a little, or what passes for it in Resembool. There’s a lot of shuffling, swaying and hopping involved. It’s fun and not that hard to do with a metal leg.

I can tell immediately that this isn’t going to be that kind of dance. The room resonates with elegant music that sounds better suited to a ballroom, and I immediately picture myself clomping around and knocking shit over, maybe breaking someone’s foot. I’ve almost resigned myself to this fate – I mean, I’m gonna leave in a month anyway, no one has to witness my mortification – when I see him in the far corner.

Mustang again. Well, Roy. Damn stalker.

“Ed,” he said brightly, after he strides over to me. “I didn’t peg you for the dancing type.”

“Excuse you. I’m a fucking awesome dancer.” I puff myself up. Of course, my posturing will fall flat as soon as we start, but I have some shred of dignity.

He just quirks an eyebrow and smiles.

“ _Hello everyone,_ ” says the instructor in Aerugonian. My eyes dart around, but no one heard us. Usually I’m good about using the language outside of class, but it’s easier to forget around a friend. Nemesis. Whatever. “ _Welcome to Aerugonian Dance!”_

There’s mixed reception. A couple keen students cheer, most look politely curious, and a couple others kick the ground as if they were forced into it like me.

“ _Of course, we cannot cover all the styles seen here in Aerugo_ ,” says the instructor with her thousand-watt smile, _“but we have time to cover both waltzing and swing dancing moves.”_

Interesting. I’ve heard the names before, but they’re new to me. Roy nods along.

“ _At the end of the month, we will share some dancing at the talent show!_ ” Shit. Shit. “ _But there is lots to learn before then. Do not worry. First, please divide yourselves into men and women.”_

What the hell? Most people just do as she says and line up on one side of the room or the other.

 _“Apologies, I should clarify. If you are, how you say, non binario”_ (I think this means non-binary?) _“or another gender, or none, please pick one side for now. Traditionally ‘leads’ are male and ‘follows’ are female._ ” She presses her lips together. “ _These things are changing. But for now, please all choose a side and learn that part first.”_

She speaks slowly enough to understand, at least, though I still don’t like rigidity. I’m here, though, so I guess I’ll play the game. I shuffle over next to Roy, step forward, and end up paired with a tall woman who reminds me of a younger Olivier. (Great hair but terrifying.)

Our first two weeks will be focused on ballroom dancing. We start off by learning the basic steps and cycling through partners every few minutes.

Saying I have “two left feet” would be generous. I’ve got one right foot and one metal thing that’s awesome for kicking shit and running into danger but really fucking awkward to dance with.

“Ow!” squeaks my latest follow. I stepped too early again.

“ _Sorry_ ,” I mumble. _1-2-3. 1-2-3 –_

“ _Excellent!_ ” The instructor claps her hands. “ _Good start today! See you Tuesday._ ”

I gather my bags like a thundercloud. Yay exercise, I guess, but damn would I have preferred three hours in the library every week instead.

“Ed! _How did you like it?_ ” Once more Roy is way too full of energy. He is flushed and looks more youthful than I’ve ever really seen him. It’s like his worries were left behind on his desk.

“ _It was ok,_ ” I mumble. “ _Kinda hard, honestly._ ” It pains me to admit this. _“And that gender stuff is bullshit.”_

Roy nods with more vigour than I expected. _“I studied some Aerugonian waltz when I was younger, but we learned both leading and following._ ”

“ _Oh yeah?”_

_“There were a lot of women at home, but they wanted to practice both. I did too.”_

I don’t get this, but nod bemusedly anyway. Did Roy have a bunch of sisters? A secret adolescent harem? Whatever – a mystery for another day.

Sleep that night is feels well-earned. I haven’t used my dancing-related muscles for a while, and absorbing another language all day is exhausting. It’s a good tired, but it seeps into my bones. I’m a dried-out, crispy sponge.

When metaphors like that hit me, it’s clear I ought to be asleep already. Or maybe my brain’s already messed up from darting between languages. Beats me. Roy and I brush our teeth at the same time in meditative silence.

I’ve got no time for bullshit today. Well, only a little bullshit.

“Are you cold?” I ask.

We start the night wrapped around each other, and I drift off to sleep in a cozy haze.

* * *

We have some extra time after lunch the next day. I call my brother in the room and Roy excuses himself to take a shower. (Who showers midday? Weirdo.)

“Brother!”

I feel myself relax even just hearing his voice. It’s nice to catch up with him properly. I tell him the part about my unexpected roommate a little quietly, because who knows how thick these walls are, but soon we’re exchanging stories and it’s like I never left. Most of my experience is good so far, but I let myself rant about electives.

“…Al, we’re gonna have to dance in front of _everyone_. I am the least skilled Aerugonian dancer that ever lived. If I keep stepping on people, there won’t be anyone even _willing_ to partner with me by the end, honestly. Maybe that’s my escape card? But the art class is okay…”

We eventually say goodbye.

“How’s Alphonse?” Roy’s sitting on the couch, his hair damp.

I jump a little, forgetting that he was around. My startle response is still through the roof, even all these years after life-and-death mode all the fucking time. I recover pretty quick, though.

“Good. He and May just got a new kitten. Oh my god, Roy, you’d think he was Maes. Al probably carries around photos in his wallet.”

Roy smiles a bit wistfully. He pauses a moment. “Dancing, huh?”

I must’ve talked louder than I realized. Oops. “Yeah… I guess I’m less of a natural than I said.”

Roy shrugs. “You don’t have to be a natural. These things come with practice.”

“I guess.” _He’s trying to be supportive_. “It’s not a skill I’ve really needed before. It’s more… precise than the dancing back home. It kind of sucks we only have a couple weeks to figure it out.”

Roy looks thoughtful. “Want to practice?"

“‘Scuse me?” I definitely misheard that.

“Our room’s big enough to do the basic step.” Roy gestures. “I’m used to being a follow, and I could help guide at the same time. It might help you be more comfortable in class.” He shrugs.

“Oh.” My brain screeches to a halt, for some reason. “Actually, that kinda makes sense.” I look around. There is a decent rectangle of space between the couch, bed, and walls. “Thanks. When do you have time?”

“We’ve got a bit now.”

Why the hell not. I nod, and Roy turns on some slow music that reminds me of what we heard in class yesterday. Like he’s already got a playlist.

“You’re serious about dancing.” Maybe it’s a question? It doesn’t come out right.

“I enjoy it,” says Roy. I’m trying to remember how we start, but my mind is blank. “Like this.” Standing straight, he holds up his left hand and drapes his right around an invisible person. I mimic him and he steps into the waltz hold. He sets his left hand on my shoulder and raises his right to rest gently on mine.

His back feels warm, and we haven’t even started moving yet.

“Good,” he said. Teenaged Ed would be deceased and floating off in the clouds by now. Thank Xerxes I’m an adult, though. I’m reasonable and not at all distracted by my hand being pressed against my roommate’s muscular back. Completely focused on learning – yes.

Roy smiles at me. I swallow.

“I’ll count us in,” he says. “1-2-3, sway-2-3, and then step forward with your right foot.”

Somehow, it works. We do the basic waltz step around our res room – there is just enough space.

 _He smells good_ , says my treacherous mind.

By the end, I feel much more comfortable with the steps. “Thanks, Roy. This was useful.”

Roy’s face is open and bright. “Anytime. You know where I live.”

And so it goes.

That night I claim big spoon. It’s only fair.

* * *

Time passes fast here.

I meet interesting people from all over. We study together and sometimes go into town to practice speaking (and sampling local cuisine, obviously). I hang out with a few of them most often; not a clique exactly, but a group of friends with similar interests. However, Roy is my best friend here. Whenever I’m doing something particularly fun, like one of our gelato trips, he’s usually there.

That’s not to say he’s in my group, specifically. Roy doesn’t seem to need one. He’s a couple of years older than most of the participants, but it really is a wide range; I think the minimum was 20, so it’s a mix of students like me and professionals on sabbatical like him.

Why doesn’t he need a group, you ask? The man practically oozes charisma. Walking around, you’d think he’s part of all cliques ever. I’ve never seen a more prolific social butterfly. I think he plays down his intelligence, turning up the charm, but thank Xerxes he doesn’t pull that shit in class. The man is razor smart.

As a natural byproduct, he’s got women hanging on his every word. What a flirt. It’s bad enough I’ve gotta see him dance with all of them in class; they’re practically swarming to him. It can get damn annoying, like when we’re in the caf now trying to study.

“ _Good afternoon, Roy_.” The latest arrival purses her lips in a way that looks more anatine than attractive.

His fans are fine people, don’t get me wrong, but I swear people’s brains go out the window when they get close to Roy. Great for politics, bad for study atmosphere. I wouldn’t know anything about this effect firsthand, of course.

“ _Hi, Jolette_.” And still the bastard humours them. Nothing too much, but he’s friendly and visits with everyone who takes the time to say hi. (Who does that?)

He’s never brought suitors to his – our – room, thankfully, but I swear he just radiates “ladies’ man” vibes. I can’t believe my sixteen-year-old ass thought he might be anything but straight.

The woman flushes, smiles and runs away. Heaven help us all.

“ _You look like you could eat a storm for breakfast_.”

I grumble at him and then speak. “ _Whatever. It’s just annoying having people interrupt our studying. Don’t you get sick of having people comin’ up to you all the time?_ ”

He chuckles. “ _They mean well_.” He looks down at his notes. “ _Want to go back to our room?_ ”

“ _Sure_ ,” I nod. We study there sometimes. I’d be there way more if it wasn’t for the meeting people, practicing language thing.

We wave to the others. It takes only a few minutes to pack up, head to our room, and settle onto the couch.

“There’s so much more vocab this week,” I mutter.

“There’s a lot written about love in Aerogonian. They say we’re in the city of desire.” A smile plays at Roy’s lips.

“That’s fair.” I flip through the list. We agree to alternate saying the words and their definitions out loud.

“ _Boyfriend_.” “Boyfriend.”

“ _Girlfriend_.” “Girlfriend.”

“ _Partner_.” “Partner.” And so on.

I make myself focus on the words. Roy’s voice is already deep and velvety, but the Aerugonian rhythm makes it sound melodious as well. I probably just sound like I’m being carried off by a river when I try to speak fluently, but I try anyway. It’s a beautiful language.

After the words for significant others and activities ( _“date”, “cocktail”, “bowling”, “opera”_ ) (“why not all at once?”), there are a crap-ton of adjectives. Some of these are a little harder to keep straight.

“ _Beautiful._ ” “ _Dazzling._ ” “ _Radiant._ ” “ _Incandescent_.” (Seriously, is this a lover or a lightbulb?) “ _Affectionate._ ” “ _Fond._ ” “ _Cuddly._ ”

As we work our way down the list, still alternating our practice, I chance a look up and immediately regret it. Roy’s looking at me and it’s fucking awkward. His eyes look darker than usual, almost solemn, and his lids look heavy. Has he memorized these already? I stumble over the next word and he tears his gaze away. I swear he reddens. It’s kind of cute, but also, what the hell?

We’ve also got a bunch of phrases to practice. Somewhere along the way we stopped saying the Amestrisian translations aloud (c’mon, they’re written right there) so we’re getting through our list more efficiently.

For example:

“ _Would you like to go out with me?_ ”

“ _What time are you free?_ ”

“ _I enjoy spending time with you._ ”

“ _You make my heart race._ ”

“ _Your eyes are extraordinary._ ”

I thought I could do this, despite all evidence to the contrary.

I clear my throat. “That’s most of it,” I say. “My throat’s getting sore. Probably enough, right?”

“Yeah, sure,” says Roy easily. “We’re going to ace this quiz.”

We blink at each other. The atmosphere is changed.

“I think I’ll go for a walk before it’s too dark.”

“Cool, have fun.” My voice sounds too soft, like it’s not mine. I’ve gotta redeem this. “Bastard.”

I go to bed early that night, though I have trouble falling asleep. When Roy makes it back to the room, I keep my eyes closed and he stays firmly on his side of the bed.

Tomorrow it’ll all be chill again. It always is. However, tonight I want space.

I beg sleep to claim me, but my mind has none of it. For the longest time, Roy’s gaze is tattooed on the inside of my eyelids, and I don’t know what it means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why, Ed, why?? Thanks for reading this far 😊 I’m hoping to post the rest within a week; we'll see. I thought I was in for a couple-thousand-words cuddling fic, but apparently this had a mind of its own. As always, any feedback welcome.


	2. due

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens. Ed is holding it together, but barely.
> 
> Side note: I’ve done similar programs to this (for French) and they are a lot of fun. Immersions are also usually community- and culture-oriented, which I’m wildly underrepresenting here. Where are the cheesy group activities? Where is the trip to local site xyz? I considered making the fic more authentic to that experience, with a bunch more OCs and class time, but ultimately I wanted to narrow in on our fave pairing. Rest assured that they are indeed befriending others and learning about Aerugonian cultures; they’re just surprised at how happy they feel around each other, spending leisure time together, et cetera.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this next part.

My waltz has gotten much stronger since Roy and I began practicing together.

Two weeks in, our class starts swing dancing.

It reminds me of alchemic duelling, if you liked the other person and didn’t have to worry about property damage. (As if I ever did.) Once you’ve got the basic moves down, there are so many options to mix and match. The follow’s gotta pay attention to the lead, because all of a sudden they might need to be twirling or shuffling in sync. Waltzing feels classy as fuck, but swing is wild and fun. It can be, anyway.

Roy looks like he’s got prior experience in this one too. Sometimes I wonder why he bothered to enroll if he knows all the moves already, but his follows seem glad.

I’m actually kinda decent at this, and it’s energizing to give my partners a good experience. I try to vary my moves, gift them with surprises, but never lead them into anything that I think they can’t do. Spinning is a highlight. Sometimes I add a spin for myself, which is a bit outside the norm, but screw that. Apparently there’s space for creativity.

As I said, it’s fun. I twirl Jolette around and she lets out a little laugh. She wore a long skirt today, and it fans out like a pinwheel as we circle each other. The instructor side-eyes how fast I spin the follows.

Despite all that, my stupid brain knows it’s not the same as dancing with Roy. Maybe it’s because he’s taller (ugh) or more experienced than me, but I always feel in sync dancing with him. If we talked the way we dance, we would’ve been properly friends ten years earlier.

I glance over at him now. I hate how his partners smile warmly at him. Worse, he returns their fond looks. It’s like, come on, take it seriously! Are you moving or gawking? This is a perfectly reasonable thing to be annoyed about, I think.

“Ed?” Oh shit, I’ve been autopiloting the basic step for half a minute.

“Oh, sorry.” My face burns. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

Lately, in art class, all I feel like painting is fire. Fire and dark eyes that are piercing and soft, all at once. (With the Aerugonian techniques we learned, of course.) When we have to go around and comment on our weekly pieces (oh, fuck), I lie and say they’re from a legend or something.

What would I say to him? _I thought I could do this but I was wrong? I grew up and my feelings are deeper than they ever were, guess I’m stuck caring for a stubborn bastard ladies’ man until I die?_ Damn… I should’ve visited some other month. This was not on the agenda.

* * *

“Al. Help.” The room is empty and I seize my chance.

“What is it, brother?” He doesn’t sound worried. He can tell my actual emergency voice, and this is not it. However, it’s Alphonse, so he’s always game to humour me and listen to a rant or three. I twist the cord around my finger.

“It’s Roy. _Please_ tell me you know how to get rid of stupid crushes. Ideally immediately.”

“Hmm. What if it could be something more?”

“The man’s as straight as an archer’s arrow. I have the worst taste.”

I can practically hear the eyebrow raise. “Did you actually ask him?”

“Nah, I don’t know... we don’t talk about that stuff. And I dunno if it would make sleeping together awkward. I mean – fuck, just cuddling. _Sleeping_ sleeping… you know.”

“Brother, hold up. You neglected to mention this. You two cuddle?”

“I don’t know. I mean, kind of, yeah. It’s just comfier. It’s chill! You know, bro spooning. Cozy.”

“‘Bro spooning’.” I hear him mutter. “How often?” The jerk sounds like he’s repressing a smile, or maybe a smirk. Rude.

“Most nights?” I rein in my impatience because it’s Al. He’s grown now, but he’ll always be my little brother. “Come on, it’s a double bed. There’s not much space.” It’s not easy to accommodate my majestic height.

For a moment, the line is quieter than I expect. “Just talk to him. You never know.”

The door opens and my cheeks immediately heat. Traitors.

“Interesting. Well, good luck with everything. I’ve got to catch up with studying.” My voice doesn’t sound right.

“Brother, are you all right? …Did he walk in, or something?”

“Yeah, I’ll be careful. Good luck with work. Byeee!” I throw down the receiver and dig around in my bag for my grammar book.

“Is something wrong?”

I startle. “Oh, hi, Roy.” I’m not winning any acting awards anytime soon. “Nope, just caught up with Al for a bit. Same old.”

Roy is too kind to call me out on my bullshit today, apparently, so he just nods. His eyes are inscrutable.

Is it weird that I really like Roy’s eyes? They’re darker than most I’ve ever seen, but they’ve got depth and these little flecks in them that I’d like to inspect closer. I don’t, obviously, or at least not when I’m liable to be noticed.

I try to shake off this weird mood and grab an Aerugonian novel (plus a dictionary). After changing into pyjamas, Roy joins me on the couch.

He starts off working on homework, but after a few minutes he finishes and then just sits there for a moment. Curiosity gets the better of me and I look over.

“Ed, random question. May I?” He gestures vaguely to my hair. His face is neutral, a beautiful mask.

“Sure?” What, touch it? I can’t think of any cons right now. I detangled it after my shower, but I haven’t taken the time to rebraid. “Why not.” _Weird question, but it doesn’t mean anything –_

He runs his fingers through my hair with a gentle but confident touch. It’s obvious he’s being careful not to hurt me. The motion feels surprisingly good, like I’m gifted with a strange blend of “massaged” and “cared for” hormones. I could purr.

“ _Your hair is stunning_.” It’s so faint I nearly miss it. That one wasn’t on the vocab list.

“Speak for yourself, bastard.”

We stay like that for a couple chapters’ worth.

Later, the scene replays as I drift off into sleep.

* * *

Thursday rolls around again, and we have just over a week until the talent show.

“ _Today we’ll be choosing partners for the performance_ ,” chirps the instructor.

I hold in a sigh. Like it or not, I’ll be showing off my new moves in front of everyone and probably making a fool of myself. Especially for the waltz portion. Maybe I can ham it up? I dunno. I’m improving, but not _that_ much better than I was. I pity the poor soul who gets matched with me, though I’d die before admitting that to Roy.

“ _Please line up in leads and follows_.” We know the routine. However, today something is amiss. “ _Has anyone seen Belle or Asuka?_ ”

“ _They were fighting yesterday,”_ volunteers one of the students. “ _I think they go home._ ”

The instructor glowers. _“Very well._ ” She purses her lips. _“We can work with this. Would any of the leads be willing to follow, for the show?”_

There’s a movement out of the corner of my eye. Roy’s hand shoots into the air, to general astonishment. (And disappointed groans from the follows who now have 0 percent chance of pairing with him.)

And that’s how I ended up with Roy as my performance partner.

“I’m gonna end up kicking you by accident, ya know,” I mutter under my breath. “You coulda danced with any of them, and you’re here?”

“ _I told you, I like to follow._ ” Roy’s eyes gleam as we practice the waltz. The stance has us looking over each other’s shoulders, but my trusty peripherals kick in. “ _And I still get to dance with a beautiful person.”_

I inexplicably flush. What was Aerugonian for _flirt_ , again? “ _You are so soft,_ ” I accuse instead.

“ _Soft enough to touch?_ ” He glances over at me as we do a promenade step. “ _You think so at night._ ”

It takes all my restraint not to, I don’t know, squeak at him. At least no one’s paying us any attention. I settle for a hiss. “ _Roy._ ”

He sobers. _“Sorry, my – Ed. I am happy to dance quietly with you, as you wish._ ”

“ _I fucking doubt that._ ”

But true to his word, Roy is silent for the next song. He looks serene. It should be damn awkward, because I shut him down (what even was that?) but it’s still exhilarating to guide him across the floor. We have so much more space here than in our private practices. When I try to surprise him with a spin turn, he follows my lead effortlessly like an extension of myself. I almost feel jealous, but that’s not quite right. Grateful? Dizzy? Whatever it is, I am heady with Roy and apparently a much better lead overnight.

After practice, the instructor walks over. “ _Very nice. I look forward to seeing your performance._ ”

Me too. Me, too.

* * *

I toss and turn that night. I’m not sure why, but I feel wired, almost jittery. Electricity courses through my veins. (Let me tell you, that sounds much cooler than it is.)

Beside me, the prone figure of Roy feels… present. I can practically hear the man thinking.

“You awake?”

Roy rolls over to face me. “Indeed. Can’t sleep either?”

“Nah.” I blink, but the light is still to dim to clearly make out his face. “Weird question?”

“Anytime.” Roy sounds amused. He probably thinks I’m ruminating on physics or something.

“You’ve probably heard of platonic cuddling.” I swallow and gesture vaguely to our… situation. Today it’s just our legs that touch.

“Sure,” says Roy, like he’s not sure where I’m going with this.

“I’ve heard of platonic kissing.” I blurt out. Have I? I must have. Yes.

In the silence I can practically hear Roy’s eyebrow raise. “Oh?”

“Perhaps it’s good for health. You know, getting energy out of one’s system.” Oh Xerxes, someone please shut me up. “Quieting the mind.”

There’s a pregnant pause. The bastard’s really going to make me say it, is he? But no. “Edward, are you saying you want to kiss? You and I?”

“Sure.” I make myself keep breathing. “If you wanna. We’re chill, right? If not, it’s just some stupid 2am thing and don’t – mmph – ”

Roy mercifully interrupts my rambling, and I kiss him back with gusto.

This is not remotely how my younger self had pictured this going, but in many ways it’s better. We’re two classmates choosing to do something fun, because we can. I only see his faint outline, unfortunately, but my senses still have plenty to go by. His skin is smooth and more muscular than I expected.

Kissing him is quickly intoxicating. Our lips approach each other softly at first, even tentatively, but we quickly become deeper, greedier. We face each other on our sides, but my body calls out for more. I reach out to his left shoulder and climb on top of him, straddling his waist.

He lets out a cute little “oh” of surprise.

I search in the dark for his expression, to confirm that this is okay, and find that Roy’s tender eyes have huge pupils. His smile is made of fire.

I like pinning him down, but eventually we do roll over. There’s something surreal about looking up at him from this angle. Nothing comes off, this time, but I have the distinct sense we’ve stumbled onto something deeper here.

Eventually our lips are sore, the moon is high, and we find our way back to our respective sides. I’m almost dizzy with want and joy and confusion.

“Platonic kissing,” says Roy faintly. “Holy fuck, Ed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Change of plan: instead of an eventual giant update, here is an earlier but shorter one. I hope you still enjoy it! I’m not entirely finished the draft, but I think we’ll wrap up in part three with ~feelings~ all around, a bit of spice, and a dance performance. (Do you think they’ll be too intimidated to try aerials? I don’t.) Anyway, I hope your week is going well and that it finds you with good things.


End file.
